


An Unusual Delivery

by AccioBeatles



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: F/M, Gen, Humour, In which Douglas hatches a plan., Sheep, letscreatecabinpressure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 02:04:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AccioBeatles/pseuds/AccioBeatles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Douglas is bored on a day off, Carolyn and Herc are on a not-a-date, Martin has a rather dubious delivery job, and Arthur receives a mysterious note.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unusual Delivery

**Author's Note:**

> This was (hurriedly) written for the September Writing Challenge for letscreatecabinpressure on tumblr. It's completely ridiculous, but was fun to write - and it also happens to be my first real Cabin Pressure fic.

Douglas Richardson was bored. And when Douglas was bored, he had a particular propensity to plot. The outrageousness of these plots, Douglas tended to find, was directly proportional to the precise intensity of his boredom. Today, unfortunately for the rest of England in general and Fitton in particular, the boredom levels were skyrocketing faster than G-ERTI on a good day. Douglas grabbed a pen and some paper, and began to make some notes.

* * *

 

Arthur was busy trying to dislodge a greying mass of what had once been porridge from the bottom of a saucepan, after a particularly unsuccessful bout of let’s-make-mum-breakfast-in-bed-for-a-nice-surprise, when the phone rang. Only too eager to abandon his attempt at washing up, he picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Ah, Arthur. Is Carolyn at home?”

“Oh, hi, Douglas! Yeah, she is, but it would maybe be a good idea to wait for an hour or two before you try to talk to her. Only she’s getting ready to go and meet Herc, and he’s convinced her to go to this vegetarian-only farm place for lunch. And I forgot that I’m not allowed to make breakfast, so she’s been grumbling that she isn’t going to eat anything at all today at this rate, and I think she might be somewhere around Gale Force- umm…”

At this point, Carolyn’s voice issued from up the stairs. “Arthur, tell whoever’s trying to sell you something at seven in the morning that they can take their phone and throw it out the window for all I care. And for God’s sake, _don’t_ go buying another truckload of dishcloths or so help me, I will take each and every one, cut them up, and put them in your dinner.”

“I think that’s a Gale Force 10.”

“Golly,” said Douglas. “Let me talk to her anyway.”

“All right, if you’re sure…”

Arthur crept up the stairs, feeling slightly wary, and handed the telephone to Carolyn. She gave it a look that could probably have blown a lesser phone’s fuse, and grudgingly brought it up to her ear.

“Make it quick,” she snapped.

“Carolyn, always a pleasure.”

“Douglas, I get little enough time away from you and Martin as it is. Please do not drag this out any longer than it absolutely needs to be. What – do – you – want?”

“Oh, you wound me,” said Douglas. “Can’t a man call for a chat? But of course, Arthur tells me you’re off on a date with… Herc.”

“It’s not a date.” Carolyn could almost hear the intake of breath on Douglas’ end of the line, as he opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off. “Now, listen. I don’t know what you think you’re up to, because God knows you never seem to muster the energy to get up at this time on a work day, but let me make this perfectly clear to you. I am going to go and have a nice, relaxing day, walking my dog, and I do not want to speak to any pilots!”

“ _Herc_ ’s a-” began Douglas in his most sullen voice.

“Goodbye!”

* * *

 

Martin squeezed his eyes shut as a tinny ringing noise shot through his head. He reached for the alarm clock on his bedside table and fumbled with the buttons, but the ringing didn’t stop. He opened his eyes, looking at the clock, and almost fell out of bed in shock. He groaned. It was nine o’clock already and his alarm had failed to go off – again. He’d been hoping to scrounge a few last minute van jobs for his day off, but clearly that wasn’t going to happen now. Martin leapt out of bed and grabbed his mobile off of the little desk in the corner of his room, still feeling miserable.

“Martin Crieff speaking.”

“Hello, is this Icarus Removals?”

Martin’s eyes widened. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Do you just do standard furniture jobs, or…?”

Well, Martin wasn’t sure that his van would fit anything much larger than a piano, but his rent was due, and quite frankly, he’d be willing to sellotape the cargo to his van roof if someone would pay him to do it.

“No, I’m quite happy to move- well, anything, really. When can I schedule you in?”

“Actually, I was hoping you could come today.”

“Oh! Of- of course.”

“Excellent. Have you got a pen on you?”

“Just a second.” Martin scrambled around on his desk for a scrap of paper and a pencil. “Yes.” Martin listened to the stranger on the other end of the phone read out his address, and carefully noted it down.

“Got it?”

“I’ve got it, thanks, Mr…?”

“Harwood.”

“OK. Great. If you don’t mind me asking, what is it you want me to move?” said Martin. “Hello?”

But the stranger had already hung up.

* * *

 

Carolyn and Herc were trampling their way through a rather muddy field, Carolyn at least five feet ahead of Herc. She would actually have quite liked to slow down – even Snoopadoop had begun to whine, and was insisting on being dragged on her lead like a sack of potatoes, rather than walking on her own stubby little legs – but Carolyn felt as though she had to make a point of walking faster than Herc for at least the first ten minutes of their walk.

“You realise,” said Herc, panting slightly as the path sloped upwards into a hill, “that the whole point of a date is to spend time _together_.”

“Well then, isn’t it lucky that this isn’t a date?”

“It is a date. If it weren’t a date then I would never willingly spend my afternoon up to my ankles in mud.”

“It’s nice and refreshing. And in any case, I didn’t make you come.”

“No, but I wanted to. Because I love you.”

There was a long pause, before Carolyn said, “Thank you.”

“I love you, and I want to spend time with you.”

“I do wish you’d stop saying that, it’s revolting.”

“But it’s true.”

Carolyn, her usual quick tongue failing her, sped up her pace until she was another several feet ahead of Herc, who gave her one of his most long-suffering sighs.

* * *

 

Arthur was humming to himself, as he wandered aimlessly about the kitchen. He hadn’t quite decided what he wanted to do with himself today. There was no hoovering to be done, Carolyn had expressly forbidden him from trying to cook anything else that day (she’d left him a pile of sandwiches for his lunch) and he couldn’t even take Snoopadoop for a walk. He was vaguely considering making himself a new hat, and maybe even matching ones for Douglas and Martin. This idea began to seem very exciting to Arthur, so he hurried over to the cupboard that had been full of his arts and crafts supplies since he was about six and set to work, gathering together everything he’d need for a papier maché monstrosity of a hat. He could just see it now, two feet high, topped with an aeroplane crafted from papier maché and smothered with glitter.

Just then, Arthur heard the faint sound of the letterbox opening and closing. He dropped the tube of glitter he was holding on the kitchen table and rushed over to the door, scooping up a piece of paper that lay on the doormat at his feet. His stomach bubbling with curiosity, he unfolded the note. Scrawled across the paper was an address: The Ridgeway Farm, Fitton, and a time: 14.30. He felt as though he vaguely recognised the name 'Ridgeway Farm' from somewhere, but he couldn't think where, and he didn’t let the feeling trouble him for too long.

“One o’clock is thirteen, two o’clock is fourteen, three o’clock is fifteen,” muttered Arthur, counting on his fingers. “So that’s… two thirty!”

His chest was almost bursting with excitement. A mysterious stranger had summoned him to a mysterious location at a mysterious time. This had fantasy story written all over it! Arthur would arrive at the Ridgeway Farm, whatever it was, to discover that he had magical powers! He would be sent away to a school to learn magic, where he would discover that he was destined to save the magical world and he’d-

Wait, that was Harry Potter.

But still!

Arthur focussed all his concentration on the tube of glitter still sitting on the table, his face scrunched up with the effort of willing it to move. Nothing happened, but Arthur felt only a tiny twinge of disappointment. If he wasn’t going to Hogwarts, maybe he’d be investigating a murder instead…

* * *

 

Martin walked up the wide driveway to the door of the house, his feet crunching in the thick layer of gravel. He rang the doorbell, and it only took a few seconds for the door to be answered by a ruddy-faced man with a moustache that took up about half of his face.

“Good morning. I’m Martin Crieff, from Icarus Removals.”

“Ah, excellent. I’m Dave Harwood. Come on in. They’re just out the back.”

Martin stepped inside, wiping his feet carefully on the mat. “Umm, if you don’t mind me asking… What exactly is out the back?”

“The sheep, of course! Didn’t I tell you? Now, would you like a cup of tea before you load them?”

“The- the sheep?” said Martin faintly.

He glanced back at his van, already envisioning nightmares of cleaning bills, fines for cruelty to animals and all manner of terrible things.

“Yes, the sheep. Only two of them. Don’t worry, they’re quite small. Only I had a buyer early this morning, and he was very insistent that he have them by the afternoon.”

“Of- of course. The thing is, though, Mr Harwood… erm… I’m not quite sure I’m insured to carry sheep in my van!” Martin was beginning to feel quite flustered now.

“Now, don’t be silly. Some might question the _legality_ of it, yes, but it’s perfectly safe! I’ve had sheep in the back of my car and I’ve never crashed once.”

“Oh, God,” mumbled Martin.

“Honestly though, nothing seems legal nowadays! I tell them, you try getting a lamb in the back of a trailer, it’d much rather be up in the front with me, but they just don’t listen.”

“Oh, _God_.”

* * *

 

Douglas stared into his wallet as he walked through the park. It was a sad sight, with just a couple of twenties and a few pennies rattling around in there. Plots, he had found, could be quite expensive to manufacture. At least in the short term. But Douglas was sure he could manage to rustle up a bit more cash to be going on with. He was, after all, the king of bargaining.

Douglas sat down on the park bench, right next to a nervy looking man whose packet of sandwiches lay untouched on his lap. The man jumped slightly as Douglas placed his backpack well over the half way point on the bench. Douglas noisily pulled out the cheese sandwich he’d brought with him for lunch and unwrapped the tin foil around it.

“Cheese,” he said, to the man. “The wife always forgets I don’t like cheese. What’re yours?”

“Oh- erm-” stuttered the man, reminding Douglas startlingly of Martin. “Just these. I didn’t mean to get- thought they were- only I’m a vegetarian, and-”

He gestured towards the packet on his knee, and Douglas recognised the label as belonging to a rather fancy little shop just around the corner.

“Fancy a swap, mate?” said Douglas, putting on a slightly more threatening accent than his usual one.

“Oh! Yes, OK. I mean, why not… Here!”

The man thrust his sandwiches towards Douglas and leapt up from the bench, barely stopping for long enough to accept Douglas’ offering of his slightly meagre cheese sandwich. Douglas peeked inside the paper packet and was delighted to find a receipt, from just fifteen minutes ago. Luck had smiled on Douglas Richardson again.

Ten minutes later, Douglas had managed to get a full refund for the sandwiches he hadn’t bought, and had even been given a small compensation by the teenaged girl behind the counter when he’d shown her, with deepest outrage, the hair that had been in the sandwich (incidentally, one of his own). Cash jingling in his pocket, he set off in search of another deal.

* * *

 

About ten minutes ago, Herc had taken hold of Carolyn’s hand. She was trying very hard not to enjoy it, because god damn it she was not some besotted teenager on a date! But Herc’s hand was quite warm, and she’d left her gloves at home, so, for practical reasons alone, she decided to let the hand-holding issue slide.

“Come on, pick up the pace, or we’ll be here all day,” she said briskly.

Herc slowed down until he was walking at almost a snail’s speed, still with a tight hold on Carolyn’s hand.

“Oh, don’t be so childish,” said Carolyn.

“We’ve been walking for at least two hours, can’t we stop for a break?”

“It’s your own fault that you decided to book us lunch at some godforsaken place in the middle of nowhere.”

“It wouldn’t _be_ in the middle of nowhere if you hadn’t dragged us round the long route.”

“Snoopadoop needs lots of walking,” said Carolyn, trying serenely to ignore Herc’s snigger at Snoopadoop’s name. Snoopadoop in question seemed to have given up on moving at all. She’d spent the last half hour being carried by Carolyn, and seemed highly unwilling to walk now that she’d been put down.

“Yes, cockapoos are of course famed for their boundless energy,” said Herc.

Carolyn gave a sharp tug on Snoopadoop’s lead, pulling her forwards. The dog growled, and bit the hem of Herc’s trouser leg.

“Good girl!”

* * *

 

There was a spring in Arthur’s step as he walked along the sunlit pavement in the general direction of the Ridgeway Farm. He could have driven, of course, but he much preferred the opportunity to go slowly and look for clues along the way… Arthur wasn’t entirely certain what clues he ought to be looking for, but despite that obvious drawback, he was doing quite well so far.

He had a long feather with something dark stuck to it that looked a bit like dirt, but _could_ potentially be blood. He also had a not-quite-empty box of matches that someone had discarded on the side of the road, a flyer about concert in the local church (that wasn’t so much a clue, but someone had handed it to him on the street and he’d put it in his bag along with everything else) and the crusts from his sandwiches. Again, they weren’t exactly evidence, but Arthur found it was always useful to have a bit of bread about your person, in case you came across some hungry birds and wanted something to feed them with.

Arthur had now more or less given up clue-hunting, and he’d started examining everyone he passed on the street instead, making up backstories for them in their head. He fixed his eyes on the plump woman who was walking just ahead of him with her bags of shopping dangling from her hands. She was a trapeze artist from a circus, Arthur decided, only she was on the run because one of the clowns had discovered that she was actually the princess of a foreign land, and he wanted to steal her tiara. Arthur forgot, at this point, that he’d made up the story himself, and began to feel quite convinced by it. He tapped the woman on the shoulder.

“Good luck,” he said sincerely. “I hope it works out.”

“What are you-?” said the woman, edging away from him.

 “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.” He gave her a conspiratorial– well, it was supposed to be a wink, but it came out as more of a blink, really.

“Actually, I forgot to get- erm…” said the woman, and she abruptly crossed the road.

Arthur continued onwards, happily oblivious and back on the lookout for clues. Suddenly, a piece of paper fluttered across the pavement in front of him, from where it had been lying in the gutter. Arthur bent down and picked it up, his heart racing with excitement as his fingers fumbled to smooth out the paper. This had to be another clue; another note, perhaps, from the stranger! Finally, Arthur got the paper open and read-

Oh. It was just someone’s shopping receipt. Ah well, into the bag it went.

* * *

 

Martin could barely remember feeling more uncomfortable in his life. How, he cursed himself, had he let himself be talked into this? If it wasn’t for the fact that Mr Harwood had offered to pay him about twice what Martin usually charged, he would have turned straight round and gone home. Even with the promise of the extra pay, Martin had very nearly refused to take the sheep, but – well – it wasn’t too long a distance, and he really needed the money. Once Martin had given a tiny nod and mumbled something about, “Maybe, just this once, he could possibly bend the rules,” the sheep had been loaded into the back of his van with a bit of straw to rest on, and Martin himself had been popped into the front seat with a cheery wave and a cheque.

Martin gave a slightly hysterical laugh and clutched the steering wheel so tightly in his hands that his knuckles turned white. What in the world had possessed Mr Harwood to think it would be a good idea to call a man in a van to remove a pair of sheep? Sheep, of all things! There was a thumping noise from the back of the van, and Martin flinched, visions of lifeless sheep and angry animal rights supporters flashing before his eyes, yet again.

“God,” he murmured.

The traffic began to slow as Martin turned the next corner, and a long queue of cars came into his view. Martin craned his neck, trying to see what was causing the hold-up. Up by the traffic lights, he could just see flashing blue lights on a parked police car; there had obviously been some kind of accident.

“Oh God.”

As Martin gradually inched his van forwards, his palms began to sweat. He was drawing closer to the police car, and the only thing he could do was to stare straight out at the road and hope against hope that nobody noticed anything strange. One of the sheep let out a pitiful bleating noise, and Martin’s heart practically leapt out of his chest in panic. His eyes flitted over to the police car, where a bored-looking policeman was standing making a few notes, presumably about the accident. Though of course, for all Martin knew, he could be noting down his very on number plate. There was probably a bit of stray hay sticking out from under the door, or someone had heard the sheep and reported him, or- or-

“Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

“All right, sir?” said the policeman, looking through the passenger window at Martin.

“Yes! Yes, of course, completely all right! I’m fine!” Martin was sure he could feel a bead of sweat rolling down his temple.

“Good,” said the policeman, slowly. “I just wanted to tell you that we’ve set up a traffic diversion to try to cut down on the block – just follow the signs.”

Martin’s shoulders relaxed. “Oh. Oh, good. Thanks.”

* * *

 

“Bonjour, Pierre, mon ami!” said Douglas, his mobile pressed to his ear. “I’m just on my way to meet an old colleague, retired now, bless him, but he still likes to keep in touch. But he does rather insist on swapping gifts whenever we meet, and I happen to know that he has eight or so boxes of chocolates to give me.”

Douglas held his phone to his ear with his shoulder, so that he could shift the two large sacks of garden compost he was carrying into a more comfortable position.

“So it suddenly occurred to me that we’re flying out to Marseilles next week, and I do seem to remember that you had a particular fondness for white chocolate – can’t stand the stuff, myself – so I thought perhaps I’d pass along the gift to you.”

Compost was a lot heavier than Douglas had realised when he’d accepted the bags from his neighbour, and he grunted slightly as he heaved them along. He was getting quite a lot of odd looks from strangers, but a polite nod usually sent them on their way.

“Why thank you, Pierre! Your memory is spot on, I’ve always liked those scarves. Can’t seem to get any quite so warm here in England, though they’d be useful with our weather. So, should we say, perhaps, sixteen?”

Douglas paused, his eyes narrowing as he tried mentally to weigh the costs of chocolate against French scarves. He was sure he could exaggerate the value once he was back in England, what with them being from abroad. Pierre, on the other end of the line, was still trying to convince Douglas that really, he couldn’t get any more than seven or so scarves at such short notice…

“How about thirteen?” said Douglas. Pause. “All right, eleven. Done.”

He hung up, shoving his mobile back in his pocket, and continued to wrestle the bags of compost down the street, shooting dirty looks at everyone who dared to step in his way.

* * *

 

“I told you you’d enjoy vegetarian food once you gave it a shot.” Herc smirked at Carolyn.

“You know, I can almost feel my muscles weakening into a state like yours already,” said Carolyn.

“Don’t be ridiculous, it was healthy, nutritious food! Salad is the food of the Gods when made well.”

“Hercules, you’re only making it sound more ghastly than it really was.”

“Well in any case, I saw you going back for seconds when you thought I was still in the loo. You can’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it.”

Carolyn sighed, and busied herself checking that Snoopadoop’s collar was on properly. She didn’t even need to glance up to know that Herc would be looking unbearably smug. When she eventually straightened, there was something entirely separate from Herc’s face that caught her eye. She squinted over towards the car park, where a battered old van bearing the logo, “Icarus Removals” had just pulled in.

“Is that Martin?” she said, pointing in the direction of the van.

Herc followed the direction of his finger. “Yes, I believe it is. Whatever is he doing?”

Martin had shut the door and walked over to the back of the van, where he was very cautiously opening it up. Herc and Carolyn walked forwards towards the car park, just in time to get a much closer view and Martin began to shepherd out-

“Are those- are those- sheep?” yelped Herc.

“Why, yes. I do believe they are,” said Carolyn, with relish.

* * *

 

Finally, still feeling slightly panicky and never wanting to see another sheep in his life, Martin reached the farm where he was meant to be dropping off the sheep. He swerved into the car park and found a spot for his van. Once he had parked, he sat in the front seat for a few minutes longer, feeling ever so slightly reluctant at the idea of unloading the sheep.

Finally, when he could put it off for no longer, Martin got out of the van. After making a great song and dance about shutting the door carefully and locking it, he walked round the van to the back. He could already hear the muffled noise of the sheep moving around, now that the van was stationary. With a slight shudder, Martin unlocked the boot, wondering how precisely he was supposed to keep a hold of the sheep until their buyer showed up.

It was only a few seconds before it struck him that maybe, just maybe, it would have been a better idea to keep the sheep shut _inside_ the van until someone else was there to help him with them, but it was too late. The larger of the sheep had already made a bid for freedom, and Martin had to grab it round the back to keep it from escaping. He poked his head into the van, while still keeping a tight hold on the struggling sheep. The second one was still pressed against the back of its container, making pathetic little bleating noises and giving Martin one of the most reproachful looks he had ever seen from a farm animal.

“Martin? What on _Earth_ are you doing with that animal?”

Martin jerked his head up and banged it painfully on the corner of the van roof. “Carolyn?” he said, looking around. “What are you here for?”

“Martin, out of the two of us, who do you think looks the most out of place? I’ll give you a hint. I am holding a dog, a common animal to take for a walk in the countryside. Admittedly, it also seems to have fallen to me to restrain the pilot with the most ridiculous fear I have come across yet-” Herc made a faint moaning sound, half way between terror and indignation, and Carolyn tightened her grip around his collar. “However, neither of these things seems all that unusual, when compared with a small, ginger pilot slash man-with-a-van, who has decided to spend his day off wrestling a sheep. Is this a new obsession of yours of which I was previously, and might I add blissfully, unaware?”

Martin glared at her, as the sheep started trying to kick him. “Can’t you – oof – help me with the wretched – ahh – thing? Or would you rather just stand there looking ornamental?”

Carolyn let out a laugh. “Ohhh, no, why ever would I want to help? This is far more entertaining! I could die happy tomorrow after watching Captain Martin Crieff restraining a sheep while the mighty Hercules Shipwright squeals like a frightened puppy.”

“I am not squealing,” Herc managed to say, before the sheep reared its head towards him and he leapt back. “I just don’t see why we have to stand so close to it!” he finished, on a slightly hysterical note.

This was, of course, the moment that the second sheep chose to poke its head out of Martin’s van. Herc let out an involuntary shriek and jumped behind Carolyn, who gave him one of her most withering looks. Martin used his elbow to push the other sheep none too gently back into the van, and groaned.

“I’m meant to be meeting the buyer here, but I have no idea where they are…”

Just then, a familiar voice spoke. “Did I hear the word ‘buyer’? Oh, goodness me, what do we have here?” Douglas stepped out from behind Martin’s van.

* * *

 

It was time for the final stages of Douglas’ plan to be put into action. He parked his car on the side of the road by Ridgeway Farm and got out, brushing down his coat. He’d almost reached the gate to the farm, when he noticed Arthur walking towards him. Douglas raised his eyebrows; the steward almost seemed to be bouncing on the balls of his feet as he walked.

“Hi, Douglas! Did you get a message too? Isn’t it exciting! What do you think’s going to happen? Ohhh, Douglas, are you a spy?”

“Calm down, Arthur! I sent you that note.” Douglas shook his head. “Didn’t you recognise my handwriting?”

“Oh. No, I didn’t.” Arthur looked slightly deflated, but he soon perked up again. “So what’s it about, what’s going on? Is this one of your schemes? Is it as clever as on Birling Day?”

Douglas smirked. It was always good for the self-esteem to have an Arthur around. “Wait and see, man cub.”

“Is Skip here? Ooh, what about Mum? And Herc? Did you send them all notes too?”

Douglas put up one hand to stop Arthur. “Come with me, and you can see for yourself.”

Douglas walked briskly down the path towards the car park, where he could just see the side of a van that looked very much like Martin’s. Oh, he did hope he’d got his timings and locations right. But if anyone had the right combination of cunning, wit and good luck to pull off a plan like this, it was Douglas Richardson. Sure enough, as they drew closer to the car park, Douglas heard a sudden scream, which he was fairly sure belonged to one Hercules Shipwright. The smirk on Douglas’ face had begun to stretch to Cheshire Cat proportions.

As Douglas drew closer to the scene of the chaos, he began to move more quietly, and pulled Arthur inwards so that they wouldn’t be spotted from Martin’s side of the van. He was rather hoping that he could make a spectacular entrance.

“Douglas?” whispered Arthur, looking so thrilled that he was almost bobbing up and down. “Is that a _sheep_?”

“Yes, Arthur, it is. Now keep quiet…”

“Will do, Douglas! Sorry! Sorry!” Arthur clamped a hand over his own mouth.

From behind the van, Douglas heard Martin’s strained voice say, “I’m meant to be meeting the buyer here, but I have no idea where they are,” and Douglas took that as his cue.

“Did I hear someone say the word ‘buyer’?” he said languidly, stepping out from behind the van with his hands in his pockets. “Oh, goodness me, what do we have here?”

It was all he could do not to laugh. Arthur had poked his head round Douglas’ side and was frozen in place, wide-eyed and amazed, with a grin plastered across his face. Martin had his arms wrapped around a sheep, his hair tousled and messy, bits of wool and dirt already clinging to his jacket. Douglas would be teasing him about this for at least the next four months. Carolyn, meanwhile, seemed to be in silent paroxysms of mirth, as she kept one hand wrapped tightly around the lead of a yapping dog, and the other with a firm grip on – ah. Herc. Douglas’ lip curled in amusement. Herc had clearly made a valiant attempt at hiding behind Carolyn, but his large frame, coupled with the hold Carolyn had on the back of his shirt, was making it difficult for him to do so. If only Douglas had had a camera on him, he would have been able to look back on photos of Herc’s blanched face for years to come.

Douglas shook himself out of his daze and stepped forwards. “Ah, Martin, I see you managed to pick up my sheep.”

“Your sheep, Douglas?” said Martin, staring at him.

“Why yes, of course! You see, I was feeling rather bored, so I thought, why not have some fun?”

“You mean _you’re_ the reason why I spent my morning carting a pair of sheep through Fitton?” Martin’s voice was becoming more and more high-pitched.

“You’re getting paid for it, aren’t you? I told Dave I’d cover the cost for the transport, as well as for the sheep.”

“But why would you go to all this trouble to buy a pair of sheep?”

“Oh, I’m sure I can find someone to pass them on to. In any case, Arthur told me that Carolyn and Herc would be coming here for lunch, and it was simply too good an opportunity to miss.”

“So _you’re_ responsible for this, Arthur?”

Arthur looked quite proud of himself. “Yeah, that’s right,” he said, at the same time as Douglas said, “No.”

Douglas reached into his bag and pulled out a pair of dog leads. He stepped forwards and clipped one around the neck of the sheep with which Martin had been grappling, giving the other end to Arthur (“Hold this for a moment, will you?”) He then leaned into the van and managed to secure the second sheep.

“There we go,” he said, straightening up and taking the first lead back off Arthur.

Martin collapsed onto his van, looking slightly dazed and mumbling something to himself. Carolyn reached forward to pat one of the sheep on the head – something Douglas was pretty certain she did solely for Herc’s benefit – and Herc shuddered. Douglas turned to Herc, with a smug smile and stepped towards him, dragging the sheep on their leads along with him.

“I am now the proud owner of these two sheep,” he began.

“Haven’t you tormented him enough yet, Douglas?” said Carolyn, as Herc edged around her.

“Tormented him? Oh, good Lord, no!”

“Fair enough.” Carolyn waved an imperious hand and Herc shot her a look of utmost betrayal. “Continue.”

“As I was saying, Hercules, I do believe that, as owner of these sheep, I’ll have to put them to good use.”

“Douglas, I know you don’t like me very much, but don’t you think this is a little-”

“I’m afraid you’ll find that these sheep will be accompanying me every time I am in your presence.”

“Now, that’s really not necessary, is it?”

“Unless, of course, I can find a friend who would be willing to take them off me.”

Herc heaved a sigh of relief. “Oh, well, I’m sure we can manage that!”

“But what would be in it for me?”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow your-”

“Well, I could give the sheep away to a friend, who owns this very farm, in fact. But I paid rather a lot for them. So why would I give them away, when I could be getting my money’s worth from them? However, were I to be reimbursed, I’m sure I would feel much more generous.”

“You expect me to _pay_ for those sheep?”

Carolyn was laughing silently again, and Arthur was watching avidly. Martin was still hunched in his van, but even he had lifted his head to watch. Douglas made as though he was going to push the sheep towards Herc, and Herc jerked backwards. Douglas smiled.

“Do I hear, for instance… a hundred pounds?”


End file.
